Psalm 120

Thou God of love, thou ever blest,

Pity my suffering state;

When wilt thou set my soul at rest

From lips that love deceit?

Hard lot of mine! my days are cast

Among the sons of strife,

Whose never-ceasing brawlings waste

My golden hours of life.

O might I fly to change my place,

How would I chuse to dwell

In some wide lonesome wilderness,

And leave these gates of hell.

Peace is the blessing that I seek,

How lovely are its charms;

I am for peace; but when I speak,

They all declare for arms.

New passions still their souls engage,

And keep their malice strong:

What shall be done to curb thy rage,

O thou devouring tongue!

Should burning arrows smite thee thro',

Strict justice would approve;

But I had rather spare my foe,

And melt his heart with love.